


A Kirkwall Flight

by Her_Madjesty



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: A Sprinkling of Humor but Also Angst, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Gen, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: Samplings from the Hanged Man's cocktail menu during the Era of the Champion, 9:30-9:34 Dragon.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras, Unspecified But Hinted-At Background Relationships
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	A Kirkwall Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicksam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicksam/gifts).



> Hello magicksam! I hope you enjoy your sampling from the Hanged Man's cocktail menu (otherwise known as my pretentious way of arranging snippets all focused on days and nights at the Hanged Man). Thank you so much for your varied prompts; this one really spoke to me. I'm hoping I've captured some of the vibe that you were looking for!

I. Benediction

_Prophet’s Laurel gin served with a wedge of lime and a thimble of Golden Scythe._

Kirkwall is not a city that the faithful tend to flock to. The White City of Chains has a history as bloody as they come; tourists are just as likely to find Hightown’s finest as they are – well, say a pile of Ferelden refugees doing their best to escape the Blight stacked near the Lowtown docks.

It’s not a pretty city, that is to say.

Varric doesn’t mind it too much.

He’s lived in the city for long enough that he should have moved his things into the Tethras holdings. The effort’s not worth it, though. Why bother hiring your own staff, after all, when you can set up in a tavern?

The Hanged Man is the height of Lowtown, which...doesn’t mean much. It keeps him comfortable, though, not to mention hot in rat stew and ale should he have the need. Let Bartrand have the manor; he’s perfectly comfortable kicking his feet up and letting Nora do the hard work of managing a household for him.

It’s a good way to live.

He’s at his favorite table – a spot in the corner, a bit grungy, but not too offense – when some of the first interesting news in months comes stumbling through the door.

The woman stumbling through the door is Coterie – her armor and weapons give her away. Her nose is bleeding like nothing else, though; the sight of it sends more than one of the regular patrons to their feet.

Nora, Andraste bless her, doesn’t move an inch from behind the bar. She shoots Varric a look that leaves him waggling his eyebrows in response.

“What’s going on there, kid?” he calls out as the woman collapses at one of the tables.

The Coterie runner spits. How she manages to hit one of the tobacco pots is a mystery to him. But he’s not the only one who’s curious; she’s drawn in a crowd, and it’s left her one part pleased, one part shifty.

A stranger slides an ale her way. Across the room, Varric leans in.

Finally, the woman speaks.

“New meat came knocking.”

A man laughs. “And it went that badly?”

“M’better off than most of the lot,” the woman hisses, her throat thick with blood. She takes a long drag of ale and goes to wrinkle her nose only to wince in pain, instead.

One of the regulars runs off into the depths of Darktown; there’s rumors nowadays of a mage in the area who’ll treat injuries without asking questions. Varric leans back in his seat, though, and lets the others pull the Coterie woman’s story out of her.

News of newcomers to the Coterie isn’t _news_ , per say. Still, it’s among one of the more interesting things to happen in Kirkwall of late. Varric either chases this story or lets his leads tell him more about the Ferelden refugees setting up camp down at the docks, and after a while, that rag gets depressing.

In the end, it's not really a hard decision, what to do next.

Over the next few days, he does his work. Blows off a meeting with the Merchants’ Guild; deflects when Bartrand comes calling. Slowly, tidbits start to trickle in.

It’s not one kid, it turns out, shaking up the Coterie; there’s two of them, instead. Fereldens, though how they got past the gate, no one properly knows. The younger of the two’s useless save for his sword arm, if word’s anything to go by. The other, though…

On paper – in a manner of speaking – she’s as much a sellsword as any other would-be has-been to come to Kirkwall. Varric walks Lowtown, though, just as evening rolls onto its back for a true Kirkwall night and spots more than the usual number of lightning bolts skewering men in the distance.

A mage, then, and a mage who’s making a name for herself. One who’s going to need protection, then, if she keeps on the path that she’s made for herself.

That could work.

He has the means, after two weeks have passed, to set up a meeting on his own. There’s something about the Hawkes, though – or the Amells, no one can quite agree – that makes them hard to pin down.

In the end, a go-between isn’t going to cut it. So Varric gets off his ass, locks the door to his suite, and goes out hunting himself.

He finds what he’s looking for, damn the Maker’s sense of humor, uncomfortably close to the piazza where Bartrand’s set up shop. Varric turns the familiar corner, already bracing for disappointment –

and pauses.

The thing about Varric, as Cassandra will say years later, is that he is Andrastian. He believes – not in a “hail and holy” sort of way but in a “Maker, there’s gotta be something good in this world to hold onto, doesn’t there?” sort of way. He’s not going to be blessing Andraste when something good falls into his lap, but he’s certainly not going to complain, either. He’ll take the good pieces as they come to better weather his way through the bad.

But there’s something about this woman.

Because he doesn’t like humans, but here’s the sun draped over her outline like it wants to hold her forever. Here’s the turn of her head and the tilt of her nose and a cocksure smile – she’s getting turned down by his ass of a brother, but she’s still smiling, stilling grinning like she’s the one in charge.

Varric turns away.

He has to.

(Somewhere, he can feel Bianca turning away from her forge to look at him – really look at him, like she used to when their conversations lasted for more than a few minutes at a time.)

It takes him longer than he likes to admit to collect himself. Once he does, though, he straightens his back, straightens his smile, and starts to walk in the opposite direction.

Bartrand will tank any attempt to get this kid on their team; there’s no doubt about that. If the reputation she’s got with the Coutrie means anything, though, then she’s their best chance for getting into that thaig – their best chance at a new life.

So Varric does what he does best. He schemes. He passes the coins he was saving for lunch into the hands of a spotted teenager and whispers instructions into his ear.

Then, he loads Bianca.

And waits.

He’s a good shot; the bolt misses the kid’s arm by a solid half an inch. Varric still gets a glare for his efforts as the kid books it, though – he’ll be difficult to buy back onto the Tethras books, but not impossible. Anyway, the catch he’s brought in is far more valuable.

Marian Hawke, Ferelden dog lord, glares down at him, her brother a fixture at her side.

“You know,” Varric says, finding his tongue, “for someone with a reputation as sweeping as yours, I’d think you’d know better than to trust just anyone on the streets of Kirkwall.”

The younger brother draws a too-large sword off his back.

Varric holds up his hands in mock-surrender, then tosses Marian her coin purse. She catches it with ease and tucks it against her side, frowning as she does.

“And I assume,” she says, the Ferelden accent heavy on her tongue, “that because you’ve given us our coin back, you’re one of the few with a heart of gold?”

Sarcasm flows from her like honey from a hive; it sends a tingle up Varric’s spine. “That’s up to you,” he admits with a careless shrug, slowing bringing his hands back down. The younger of the two Hawkes approaches, but Marian stops him, one hand held out against the plate mail covering his chest.

“I am, at least, more trustworthy than my brother,” Varric continues, nodding back in Bartrand’s direction. He lets the information sink in. “Better looking, too – and just a little bit smarter. Which is why I know that the two of you would make excellent additions to our expedition.”

“You might want to inform your brother of that,” spits the younger Hawke – and really, what was his name? Carver, Carver; second fiddle and mad about it. Varric would sympathize, but this kid is a frayed nerve. “He’s already turned us down flat.”

“That’s because you tried to sign on as hired hands.” Varric lends a soothing touch to his tone. “But if you come aboard as investors, you’ll have a better chance to get your hands on the treasure that you’re looking for, just like the rest of us.”

Marian laughs. It’s a barking laugh, a dog lord laugh, but Varric doesn’t say so. Instead, he shoves his hands deeper in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“You’re funny,” she admits, dragging a hand under her nose. “But if you know half as much as you think you do, ser dwarf, then you know that we’re not the type to be throwing around money.”

Varric lets out a dramatic sigh. Subtly, subtly, he starts to direct the newcomers towards Lowtown, keeping his steps soft and his expressions honest. “Luckily, your reputation goes a little beyond ‘flat broke and eager for work,’” he tells them. “Come with me to the Hanged Man. I’ll buy, and we’ll talk a little bit more about how we can work with each other.”

Carver reaches out and catches his sister by the arm. Marian turns – and Varric masterfully fights down a grin.

He’s got one. That’s all he needs.

He turns away to better let the siblings have their hushed fight. After a minute of inspecting his fingernails, there’s a grunt from over his shoulder.

Varric looks up and back.

Carver looks like a kicked puppy, but he’s beginning to expect that that’s just the kid’s face. Marian, on the other hand –

Well. She’s no Andraste, but there’s a fire in her that even a blind man couldn’t deny.

“We don’t say no to free drinks,” she says, faux-casual. “But don’t get any ideas.”

“Ideas? Me? My lady, they’re only ever sweet and innocent.” The urge to hold out his arm for her to take is almost overwhelming, but Varric fights it down. Instead, he waits for her to fall into step with him, leaving Carver a half-step behind.

When he thinks they’re not looking, he allows himself the smallest of smiles.

It’s a start, whatever this is. Luckily, Varric Tethras has always been good at working with what he’s been given.

II. The Hissing Drake

_Cinnamon-infused whiskey, dark Llomerryn rum, and Hirol’s Lava Burst._

There has always been something about dragons.

Looking back, she’s not sure if she can blame the fixation (Aveline’s words, not hers) on the Witch of the Wastes or the stories her father told her when he thought Mother wasn’t listening. But there’s always been something compelling about the curve of their wings, the cull of their horns, the cut of their teeth. She knows merchants – or rather, Varric knows merchants, and those merchants know her – who could get her champagne flutes made out of dragon horn or a dagger made from dragon’s teeth, but it’s not...that, precisely, that she wants.

Staring down at the creature snarling up at her in the Bone Pit – sorry, the _Maharian Quarry_ – she’s not sure if she can give that want a name.

At her side, Isabela is screaming something perverse in Rivain while Fenris shows the first signs of interest in any of the day’s events.

Varric, on the other hand –

“Nope.” He smacks his lips together when he speaks; a delightful habit, if Hawke does say so herself. “Nope. Sorry, kid, I’m out. This is not what I signed up for.”

“ _You_ said we needed to make money,” Hawke reminds him, adjusting her grip on her staff as the dragon’s roar shakes the quarry.

“Make money, not _die_ , Hawke!”

A gout of flame shoots up and against the rock face. Isabela throws herself into one of the nooks and all but disappears. Fenris, bless him, does not flinch, just stares down at the creature with a look others would call disinterest but that Hawke knows is anything but.

She looks at Varric – this dwarf she still does not entirely trust – and grins.

Varric reaches up. For a moment, she’s not sure if he’s going to slap her or take her head and shake it. In the end, he does neither. Instead, he licks his fingers and puts out a spark that’s settled in her hair.

If possible, Hawke’s grin widens.

Her battle cry echoes up to Sundermount, turning the heads of a Dalish hunting party nearby.

*

Evening comes.

There isn’t a proper market for dragon parts in Kirkwall yet, but that doesn’t mean that the four of them have a difficult time selling off their prize. Varric sends a runner up to Hightown to connect with the Merchant’s Guild while, down near the docks, Isabela takes over haggling for some of the dragon’s less desirable parts.

By the time Hawke, Isabela, and Varric drag themselves to the Hanged Man – Fenris having long abandoned them for a bath in his own home – it’s long been dark, what with the bells of the Chantry ringing out the late hour over their heads.

Rumors of their spoils have already reached the bar, but that’s the nice thing about the Hanged Man. No one especially cares. Nora is as perfunctory as ever behind the bar, waving a hand as the troop takes up seat at their regular table. Hawke watches her pass Varric his mail all while demanding some manner of drink: something celebratory to start off the evening.

(There are bags under Nora’s eyes that she spots, too, but adrenaline is a friendly companion in her veins. She’ll make it up to her in coin, and that, above all else, will keep Nora happy.)

The serving girl who comes to their table is new and less exhausted than Nora but not less apprehensive to approach them. Hawke grins at her, dirty, before raising an eyebrow at what are distinctly not mugs of ale sitting on the table.

“Compliments of the house,” the serving girl says to her shoes.

“Are you certain, ducky?” Isabela asks, her smile no less diminished but her gaze a suspicious thing.

“Bah,” Varric scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with a healthy dose of caution, Rivani, but this place? It needs us. If there’s anything in that drink, all it’s gonna do is knock us on our asses for a day. Isn’t that right, Nora?”

Hawke throws back her head and cackles as Nora graces him with a two-fingered salute.

The serving girl, clearly overwhelmed, takes a few hesitant steps back from the table. It strikes at Hawke’s heart, though she doesn’t want it to, the way she looks like Bethany when her sister was only thirteen.

She pastes her smile in place and waves a hand in the girl’s direction, careless and careful all at the same time.

The serving girl’s eyes are not the same color as Bethany’s – brown instead of blue.

Marian feels herself breathe and wonders, idly, when she stopped.

“Kid,” she says, in a tone that vaguely mocks Varric’s (the dwarf swats her knee for her efforts). “What is this? I haven’t seen a drink this pretty outside of Hightown.”

“You’ve never been to Hightown!” Isabela crows.

But Hawke keeps her gaze on the girl and waits – patient, determined, rugged – until the girl manages a tentative smile.

“A Hissing Drake, ser,” she says, her voice shaking.

Hawke can’t help it; she snorts. The cautious wonder on the girl’s face dips back into fear, so she holds out one hand, bidding the girl to stop, while quickly rummaging through her pockets with the other.

Hawke presses a gold coin into the girl’s hand, choking back her laughter even as the girl’s eyes go wide.

Isabela and Varric are leaning on each other for their laughter, but she doesn’t turn around to see. Instead, she grins – sloppy, hunter-to-prey – and curls the girl’s fingers around the gold.

“You’ve got a good sense of humor,” she cracks, then raises her voice and looks towards the bar. “You best be keeping this one around!”

The look Nora gives her is withering, but it does the trick. The girl is giggling as she leaves the table, leaving Hawke to look back at the useless lumps she’s on her way to calling friends.

(She doesn’t clock Varric’s eyes softening as she settles in, nor does she notice the coy smile that curls its way onto Isabela’s face.)

III. The Golden Nug

_White Seleney wine with a dash of West Hill Brandy and pomegranate juice. Muddled with raspberries and a sprig of Royal Elfroot._

Varric returns to the Hanged Man a day after emerging from the earth. He is still covered in blood; still covered in dirt; still covered in sweat and all of the residue from the underground that best makes folks walking past him do double, then triple-takes.

No one wants to steal from a man who’s covered in shit, though, so he keeps it on him – kept it on him, rather, declining Daisy’s offer of a tub in the alienage.

Leandra had offered him no such kindnesses. She hadn’t even offered them to Hawke. No – Leandra took one look at their diminished party and slammed the door to Gamlen’s hovel in Marian’s face.

(No Carver – no more kicked-puppy looks while walking through town; no more bitter-tongued analysis of their latest kill. Carver is a corpse in a thaig that Varric intends to bury – and isn’t that a kicker.)

And then Hawke had disappeared.

So in truth, Varric returns to the Hanged Man dirty, underfed, and in a sour temper both due to the practicality and as a result of trying to chase a long-legged human through the better part of Kirkwall until the wee hours of the morning.

He hadn’t found her. Neither had Daisy, nor Rivani, nor any of the other sorry saps he’d almost bothered to call friends. His spies are having better luck now, but not by much: there are signs of Hawke out on the Wounded Coast, but morning tide is coming in, which means they’re ripe for disappearing.

There’s only so much a man – dwarf – can do when faced with these kinds of odds.

So he delegates.

The morning stalls are opening: he sends a runner from the Hanged Man to the Merchants’ Guild with an offer. He pulls together his notes and determines which parties are most likely to buy Deep Roads goods. Letters from Bianca help him identify a group of dwarves crazy enough to blow the thaig to hell and back.

He thinks on Bartrand – but no. No. One problem at a time.

It’s mid-morning by the time his adrenaline wears out. In between one letter and the next, Varric closes his eyes and sinks.

His old chair is forgiving; the floor, even more so. The Hanged Man may not get the best care money can buy, but she’s a sturdy old girl. He presses his back against the desk and keeps one hand over his mouth.

He’s breathing too fast.

Maker, he’s _crying_.

Varric doesn’t make a sound as he cries. His breakdown is a thing of practiced silence, even as he starts to shake and his jaw locks into place.

Panic doesn’t settle in his fingers or his brain. It rests in his chest. Like a good dwarf, he presses it down, tightens it into a diamond. Now, diamond dust chokes his lungs, mulling with red lyrium and dirt, dirt, dirt.

(And ahead of him – Hawke, her head bowed low; her hand tucked into his; her arms shaking as her mana pools ebbed and her breaths growing shorter, shorter.)

*

Come the end of the day, there’s a knock on his door. He doesn’t have the will to make himself presentable, so Varric throws on a dressing robe and – hesitates.

Hope beats a steady rhythm in his chest. He breathes, opens the door to his suite –

and finds a tray sitting in the halls.

A gift from Nora, then. A fresh loaf of bread and stew that looks like it’s been made from real beef instead of the rat meat sold throughout Lowtown. A mug of water, bless her, but a drink, too, with a ribbon tied around its fancy handle and a note attached.

Varric glances down the hall. He catches the serving girl’s back as she retreats and goes to call out to her, but his voice sticks in his chest.

In the end, he takes the tray back into his room and sits it on his desk.

He eats the stew first. The bread goes down with it. The water goes next, a blessing after health potions and the sharp taste of lyrium, when the party’d grown desperate.

The fine glass is last. Steady hands untie the ribbon around the handle and break the spit seal on the note.

Despite himself, Varric groans.

_A Golden Nug_ , reads Hawke’s dagger-like handwriting, _for my favorite nug lord. Be home in three days. Tell your spies to keep up._

*

And she does come home; his spies tell him so. To the best of his knowledge, Leandra lets her in. But Hawke stands on the doorstep, instead, and tells her mother to pack her things.

She doesn’t ask for help, moving herself and her mother into the Amell estate. By the time Varric sees her again, her smile will be back in place; her jokes will come tight and fast; she’ll sit with Isabela on one side and Daisy on the other and cheat at cards like she’s got nothing better to do with her life.

They’ll make eye contact, though, over ale and other drinks. He’ll give her the cut of the expedition she’s owed. And while Hawke will grin and wink, he’ll see the storm clouds behind her eyes and feel that tight feeling in his chest – like he hasn’t done enough and has done too much, all in one breath.

IV. The Randy Dowager

_A Tall glass of abyssal peach liquor and fresh cream garnished with a rose sugar rim. Best served with a rhyming couplet inked by the bartender or sold in bulk by the editor of the periodical of the same name._

The thing about time is that is constantly marches forward, even if you don’t want it to.

Days pass.

Three years pass.

Hawke wakes – or often, doesn’t sleep – only to leave the Amell family estate and walk the streets of Kirkwall. Between the dragon and the sudden emergence of her family’s name in Hightown’s society circles, there are few ways for her to maneuver without being recognized by someone looking for her to solve their problems. There are days, though, when she manages: a hood over her head, her staff doubling as a walking stick.

It’s not a good disguise. It works, though, and more often than she expects it to.

By the time she arrives in the Hanged Man on a day like anything other, she’s passed at least two nobles and two parties out of Lowtown in search of the Amell estate. Knowing her mother, Leandra will have their information collected and the parties themselves sent on their way long before Hawke comes back home again. That information will still worm its way onto Hawke’s bed, of course, but she’ll be able to put it off for a day or two before matters become pressing.

Her mother won’t mention any of it, of course. Won’t say a word. If she’s lucky, they’ll sit down for dinner across from one another and talk about the weather for a matter of minutes before falling into awkward silence.

It’s the most Marian can ask for, these days.

The Hanged Man, at least, is more welcoming. Hawke throws off her hood as soon as she steps inside and relishes in the annoyance that immediately fills the room. The regulars, bless them, ignore her. Nora nods at her from behind the bar but does little else. And in the corner –

“There you are!” It’s Isabela who calls for her, but she’s far from alone. There’s Anders, frowning into a mug of something brown; there’s Merill, waving like she’s going to fall out of her seat; there’s Aveline and Fenris and –

“Pay up, Rivani,” Varric says, a slow grin working its way across her face. “I told you; she’s sneakier than she looks.”

Isabela passes over an indeterminate amount of coin as Hawke throws herself down at the table, groaning dramatically.

“Are you making money off of me?” she demands, her voice muffled by the wood. “We have an agreement, Varric; where’s my cut?”

“It’s not my fault Rivani bets against you,” Varric insists. Hawke feels a finger poke the side of her head and looks up with a scowl – but it’s Merill, and the expression melts off an instant.

“They’ve been arguing,” Merill whispers, all but pulling herself into Hawke’s lap. Hawke shifts in her seat and waggles her eyebrows at the whole of the table, but the insinuation is lost on the elf woman.

“The two of them?” Hawke blinks in mock surprise. “Never.”

Merill giggles. “They think you’re going to pick a fight with the Qunari,” she says, leaning forward to gather a deck of cards in her hand. Isabela makes a wounded sound, but Hawke slaps her hand away before she can steal the deck back.

Methodically, Merill begins to shuffle.

“It’s more likely that the Qunari pick a fight with me,” Hawke huffs, adjusting Merill in her lap. She looks around the table, one eyebrow raised. “Or the folk in Hightown, or in Lowtown, who’ll bring their problems to me and expect me to do the fighting for them.”

Anders avoids her gaze, but that’s par for the course. Varric tucks his hands behind his head and grins, while Isabela and Aveline look...surprisingly similar.

“You have to admit, Hawke,” says Aveline, her stern voice cutting through the clamor of the Hanged Man, “it’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

Hawke presses a hand to her chest. “I’m offended.”

“Ducky,” Isabela leans in, letting the low cut of her shirt do the talking for her, “it’s not like I was betting that you’d lose the fight. Just that you’d find one! You’re so good at it, you know.”

Hawke offers her a two-finger salute that only leaves the pirate laughing.

The Qunari are something of a new addition to Kirkwall. They’ve replaced the Ferelden refugees who once made their home at the docks – the end of the Blight saw Kirkwall’s bay clear out, if only for a week or two.

Now, though – well. Hawke leans back in her seat and waves at Nora. The ale that plunks down in front of her is gray and unappetizing, but Hawke blows the barkeep a kiss, anyway.

Merill spreads out the cards in front of the lot of them, clapping her hands in excitement. The winds of conversation shift as the party digs in its heels.

The thing about Wicked Grace is this: the game is far more about cheating than it is about winning. Hawke knows that Isabela pulls two cards every time she draws just like she knows that the corner of each card bears Varric’s own marks. She knows, in the same breath, that Merill sits in her lap to better ask Hawke for help and that, in turn, Hawke can better whisper advice into her ear. Across the table, Anders and Fenris are too busy glaring at one another to properly cheat, but that doesn’t mean that they won’t get a good hand or two in before the night is out and the pot’s run dry.

The night goes on like this:

Two drinks in, and Isabela loses her pants. Not to be outdone, Merill throws her hand and tosses her outer coat into the corner. Varric, laughing, gathers it up and puts it on the back of his chair, putting in a few pointed words about Kirkwall’s chillier falls before winning the round.

Hawke loses the next round. The the chorus of whistles and Aveline’s exhausted groan, she’ll pop the buttons of her shirt, letting the red fabric reveal the worn chemise that her mother’d brought with them from Lothering.

“I don’t think I agreed to this kind of game,” grumbles Anders – but his face is bright red with Isabela pressing into his side.

“If you don’t want to play,” the pirate sings, “then don’t lose!”

His hand goes onto the table, and Isabela whistles and guffaws until he undoes one of his gauntlets.

Hawke leans in, one arm around Merill’s waist. She draws her newest hand before carefully setting it face-down on the table. The pot is unimpressive but workable – so with a clever hand, she reaches up and undoes one of her earrings. It lands on a small pile of coins with a satisfying “ting.”

She makes eye contact with Varric and grins a wolf’s grin.

A larger “clunk” – one of Isabela’s rings joins the pot. Anders parts with his recently-discard gauntlet while Fenris throws his hand away in disgust. After a moment’s consideration, even Aveline unties her headband and lets it flutter onto the table.

Across the table, Varric lets out a heaving sigh. Another drink comes down in front of Hawke, and she takes a long drag of cream and peaches as he strokes his chin.

He’s careful to set one of his own earrings beside hers in the center of the table.

“I don’t know what’s better,” Hawke hears Isabela say as though through miles of water, “that I’m going to skin you lot for everything or that I’m going to see the best of you naked.”

Hawke throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, ‘Bela,” she says, picking her hand up from the table, “not if I see you first.”

Varric chokes on something, but none of the party pay him any mind. The round begins in earnest, while Merill – distracted – pouts aloud, realizing that she’s forgotten to draw her own cards.

*

It’s just the lot of them in the tavern sooner rather than later. Isabela has long abandoned any pretense of dignity, abandoning her knickers and relying on her shirt – not even her bandana – to keep her decent at the table. Hawke’s chemise is on top of Aveline’s overshirt, leaving just her breast band behind; she grins at Anders, who hasn’t dared make eye contact with her for the better part of an hour.

As the latest round comes to an end, Varric groans and dramatically throws a mix of serpents, knights, and angels down onto the table.

“Bastards, the lot of you,” he growls, playful, as he pulls his shirt over his head. It lands in the pile not too far away, and Hawke –

Stares.

(It’s not as though she doesn’t know how difficult it can be to pull Bianca’s trigger – the crossbow’s _heavy_ , and she’s told Varric as much before. But his _arms_ – Maker’s taint, he’s not even flexing on purpose and all she can think about is the feel of them around her middle, holding her while she cushions herself on his thighs and –)

Merill gasps in her ear, dragging her back into the proper moment. “Does this mean I win?”

Hawke sets her cards down on the table and gently passes the elf over to Isabela, who makes grabby hands at her favorite kitten.

Aveline cracks a yawn, but her eyes are bleary with alcohol as much as they are with lack of sleep. “One more round,” she says, waving at the table. “Of cards and of drinks, and then it’s to bed with the lot of you.”

“Aw, mother,” chorus Hawke and Isabela together before breaking into a song of giggles. Varric snorts and Merill coos; it’s all heartwarming and sticky and almost enough to distract Hawke properly from the way the firelight catches in Varric’s hair when she looks at him sideways.

“Fine, fine,” Isabela concedes, burying her face in Merill’s neck. “I have better things to do, anyway. Last round, for all the marbles!”

Various goods fall into the center of the table, joining the jewelry and coin that’s already in play. Hawke hunkers down, grinning at her opponents and ignoring the persistent heat between her legs.

It’s a rough hand to start – the Serpents of Deceit and Decay, sure, but little else. She wiggles the Angel of Death out from beneath the table as Aveline’s drinks come in and tucks it behind the Angel of Truth.

The river fills. Fenris folds and grumbles something about mages that has half the table up in arms, if only playfully (on all parts save for Anders’). A round later, Aveline tosses her hand in with a snort of distaste. Hawke starts to giggle as cream gathers on her upper lip, and Aveline – for the first time she can remember – either doesn’t notice it or indulges her and refuses to wipe it away.

She catches Varric looking at her, in that moment. It’s a nice look – a heavy look, throbbing like the alcohol in her veins.

Hawke stares back at him, challenging, as the round passes his way. He picks up a card without looking, and she takes a drink – long and slow. She’s drained her cup without quite realizing it, the taste of peach bright and compelling on her tongue.

Isabela lets out a low whistle.

Varric looks away first.

Hawke lets out a barking laugh as the round comes to a close, her Angel of Death slamming into the center of the table.

“A fleet of angels,” she says, revealing four of the five.

Across the table, Isabela starts to swear. Merill’s confusion is a pretty thing, but it’s not as good as the sharp shock and fall in Varric’s eyes as he takes in his loss.

Hawke draws the pot towards her, letting her breast band do its work as she leans over the table. Looking down, she does a series of rapid mental calculations – what to return, what to keep, what to pawn the next morning. Before anyone can stop her, though – before she’s even bothered to sit back down – her fingers find the gold of Varric’s earring.

She fits the piece into her ear, then reaches for a spoon to admire her reflection.

“Yes, yes, ducky, you’re very pretty,” Isabela scoffs, her wayward fingers already reaching for Hawke’s loot. “Now, I believe mother said it was time for all of the good girls and boys to make their way to bed.”

Both she and Hawke look to Aveline for a reply, only to find the guard-captain with her head already on the table.

Isabela lets out a dramatic sigh. “Come on, kitten,” she says to Merill, gently foisting the girl from her lap. “Let’s get her ladyship home.”

“Oh – but shouldn’t Hawke come, too?” Merill asks, looking between Aveline and Hawke with genuine, if inebriated, concern.

Hawke opens her mouth, but Isabela beats her to it, her amusement rich in her voice. “I believe our fearless leader has other tasks to attend to tonight – namely, finding some bed to fall into.”

“Excuse you,” says Hawke – and Maker, maybe her voice is slurring a little. “I resemble that remark.”

As Isabela and Merill string Aveline up between them, the pirate leans over to kiss Hawke on the cheek. “That you do, darling,” she says, smiling. She glances over Hawke’s shoulder, guiding Hawke to follow her – and ah, yes. There’s Varric. Hawke goes to stand, but her feet betray her, and ah. It’s not the floor that greets her like she expects it to be. No, instead it’s Varric, his shirt barely over one arm and his chest all. There. And pretty.

“Don’t worry, Daisy,” his familiar rumble comes from somewhere over Hawke’s head. “It’s not like I haven’t seen this before. Compared to the two of you, I’d even say I’ve got the easy job.”

“Now, Varric,” Isabela chides, even as her voice grows more distant, “there’s a lot of things we can call our dearest Hawke, but I’d dare say that ‘easy’ isn’t one of them.”

Her tone is...surprisingly earnest. Hawke lets out a noise of offense just to defend herself – or condemn herself, either one – and is rewarded with the feeling of Varric’s laughter against her cheek.

Slowly, her friends and their footsteps disappear into the evening. She lets Varric throw one of her arms around his shoulders and guide her up the stairs, all the while listening to him mutter beneath his breath.

(And she’s not this drunk – not practically, not really. If Varric wants to mother hen her, though, well. She’s not going to _stop_ him.)

“I’ll have someone watch them, don’t you worry,” he says, kicking her feet into the proper positions. “Aveline’ll wake with a headache but...most of her clothes, I imagine. At least, everything she left with. Maybe I’ll make you run everyone’s things back tomorrow; Maker knows I don’t want to be the one to give her Donnen’s shirt back.”

Hawke hiccups, then laughs, then hiccups again. She feels more than sees Varric shake his head.

“At least you can still entertain yourself.”

Crossing Varric’s threshold isn’t an easy thing, what with the two of them pasted up against one another, but they manage, after a minute. Hawke all but sags to the floor, the smell of ink and whiskey and cherry wood meaning “safety” amidst the sea salt and iron that is Kirkwall.

“Just make yourself comfortable,” Varric drawls, his footsteps moving away from her. After a minute or two – or maybe an hour; she can’t tell, not with the world pleasantly dark and flickering – she’ll feel his hands on her again, moving her up into a soft bed.

Before he can draw away entirely, she catches him by the wrist. Bless the Maker, his shirt’s still off.

Hawke opens her mouth – but the words aren’t there.

So instead, she tugs.

And Varric is a sturdy dwarf; he rarely falls without reason. When he comes down on top of her, then, some small part of Hawke’s brain knows that it’s not an accident.

She is too far gone to work out what that means, though.

So instead, she grunts and wiggles back into the bed. She opens up her arms and closes her eyes, welcoming him in.

The room is quiet. She can feel him hesitate.

In the same way, she can feel him concede.

The kiss of his skin against hers makes her sigh, some soft, breathy thing that would leave Isabela mocking her for weeks to come. But he smells like ink and alcohol and _Varric_ ; he’s hot against her, those arms coming around the back of her head. Clumsy fingers undo his hair tie and wrap it around her wrist, instead.

“...we can’t make a habit of this, Chuckles,” she hears him say as the room grows darker. “What would people say?”

In a brief moment of coherency, Marian manages to scowl. She opens her eyes and gently bumps her forehead against his, taking in the rosy flush of Varric’s cheeks and the softness of his eyes.

“Fuck ‘em,” she says, clear as the dawn. The next moment, her head is on the pillow, and her hands are tight around Varric’s waist.

She’s asleep within moments, or something close to it. In that world between sleep and dream, though, she feels the ghost of something against her forehead – then the ghost of another against her lips. She sighs into the touch, then lets dreams take her, the taste of peaches still dancing on her tongue.

*

In the weeks to come, she’ll eat the words she spoke at their corner table – words of fighting and the brawls she would not have. The Viscount will come to her; the city will quiver; the Arishock will speak with her and only her. The fight that ends up thrown at her feet will leave her wandering Kirkwall’s streets with a cocky smile and shaking hands – but that’s what coats are for; her pockets will hide what her bluster cannot.

But that’s for weeks from now. Come morning, Hawke will wake to find her nose pressed to the curve of Varric’s neck and one arm wrapped around his stomach. She’ll freeze – and he’ll continue to breathe with the ease of a dreamer lost in something soft and peaceful.

Nora won’t look at her as she sneaks her way out. With a hood over her head, she’ll make her way back up to Hightown without garnering so much as a sideways glance.

It won’t be until she’s settled in at her own breakfast table, though – with lilies in a vase in the center – that she’ll remember:

Dwarves don’t dream.

And something will sink low and hard and guilty in her gut.

V. The Emerald Valley

_Made with a spirit distilled by Chantry sisters in Ludes from over seventy herbs and flowers. Topped by egg-white foam and dusted with nutmeg._

“Do you think this is a good idea?”

The roof of the Hanged Man hasn’t been repaired in years. Varric would know – he’s lived here for long enough. But it’s stable, quiet, and most importantly, inaccessible to the crowds that have started to flock into Lowtown.

“What, you mean sitting on a derelict roof, hoping we don’t fall and break our necks?” Varric makes a show of looking over the edge. He wavers, then sends a surreptitious look back towards Hawke. She stares back, face unusually serious, with one eyebrow raised.

“Fifty-fifty,” Varric finishes. Despite his best efforts, the joke falls flat.

News of the upcoming duel with the Arishock has spread through Kirkwall like a plague. Those now in the Hanged Man are looking to give Hawke their advice, their guidance, or their condolences. Those who don’t bother to come this far south – metaphorically speaking – will seek her out during the day, requesting lunches, teas, and long walks through the garden.

Everyone is betting on duel’s outcome.

If Varric were smarter, he would be, too.

Silence settles between them. Down below, a scuffle breaks out between visiting merchants and the cluster of Qunari guarding the entrance to the refugees’ quarter. Varric feels Hawke tense at his side and prepares to descend, to reach for Bianca –

but the moment passes.

Hawke deflates a little at his side. Together, they watch the fight play out. The city guard intervenes before the Qunari can retaliate, and the loudest of the traders walks away in chains.

“Do we...talk about it?”

It’s the first time in their entire partnership Varric thinks he’s heard her...uncertain before. He doesn’t like it. He likes the tense lines of her face as she refuses to make eye contact even less.

Varric opens his mouth –

Then lets it fall shut again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Despite himself, he’s looking out to sea.

Maker, but he’s a coward.

At his side, Marian lets out a huff of a laugh. “Not really,” she admits, leaning back against the curve of the Hanged Man’s roof. “Not today. I’ve had enough of goodbye speeches; I’m not going to be a hypocrite and make you sit through one.”

That _stings_. Varric laughs if only to cover up the way he presses a hand to his chest; Maker, it feels like he’s been shot.

“Do me a favor,” he says through his laughter, “and don’t go around saying things like that. I’ve got money riding on you that I’d rather not lose.”

The setting sun catches in her hair as she laughs (and if he was listening, Maker, he’d know that sound to be as false as his own). Varric feels his breath stutter and has to remind his lungs that they have a job to do.

Hawke’s hand comes down on his knee. She looks at him, finally, and it’s worth the pretty lies to see laughter in her eyes again.

“You never lose money betting on me,” she says with a grin.

Varric grins back – but it’s a false thing.

They end the night not long after, Hawke retreating down into the inn when she spots Isabela on the horizon. Varric lingers, the shingles digging into his ass long after the sun has set.

Servani is high in the sky tonight, moving past the horizon to appear just above Kirkwall’s port. Varric traces out the man’s heavy chain and grimaces. He drags a hand over his eyes and lets himself...stew, for lack of a better term and to his shame, for a long while.

When he goes back down into the Hanged Man, he’ll grin and bluster and order a round of the strangest, greenest drinks Nora has behind the bar. Isabela will slap him on the back; Aveline, down from the Keep, will scoff but sip at her Emerald Valley with a small smile on her face. For hours, all of them will forget the fight to come – or, at least, they’ll act like they have.

When Servani has long faded from the sky, Varric will gather their cups on Nora’s behalf, then drag himself to bed. If he finds Hawke sleeping there, then – hey. He’ll curl up beside her, no harm, no foul.

If the bed is empty –

Well.

He doesn’t want to think about it.


End file.
